CHAPTER
8
“Interesting,” said Stu, hearing about the library book, but he sounded distracted.
He’d been on the phone and now it went back in his pocket. “West L.A. uniforms are with Lisa Ramsey’s maid, it’s not Beverly Hills, a few blocks away. Sunday was the maid’s day off, she just got back, Lisa hadn’t slept in her bed. Lisa’s Porsche isn’t in the garage, so it looks like she drove herself somewhere, either hooked up with the killer and switched to his vehicle or got jacked. We’ve got to hustle over to Ramsey’s place in Calabasas to do the notification, then return to interview the maid. He wasn’t at his studio office, and protocol says we make every attempt to notify in person. He lives in one of those gated-estate deals; I’ve got the address.”
They walked to their white Ford. It was Stu’s day to drive and he got behind the wheel.
“Calabasas is tan-shirt territory,” said Petra as he started the engine. He drove slowly. As usual. More slowly than any cop she’d known.
“Tan as an anchorman,” he said. “Schoelkopf called the boss sheriff out at the Malibu station to define some ground rules, but seeing as it’s a 187, they punted to their downtown Homicide boys. The jurisdiction’s ours, but they want to be there when we notify, ’cause Ramsey’s house is their turf—they don’t want to be perceived as out of the loop. A couple of their downtown Homicide investigators will meet us outside the gates.”
“Big drive from downtown to Calabasas,” said Petra. “So on some level they do think they’re investigating it?”
“Who knows. Maybe they can help us.”
“As in getting hold of Ramsey’s domestic-violence history?”
“That. Anything.”
As they got on the stretch of road that ran between the park and the 5 freeway, Stu said, “Schoelkopf gave me the kind of lecture I haven’t heard since I rookied: Don’t go in without permission, don’t climb any walls, treat him a hundred percent like a grieving ex, not a suspect. No searching of any kind, don’t go to the john if it can be construed as a search. No asking questions that might incriminate anyone, because then you’d have to Mirandize the guy and I don’t want even a hint that he’s a suspect.”
“What about getting hold of that TV tape?”
“Not even that yet, because it would show clear signs of suspicion.”
“Come on. It’s public domain,” said Petra.
Stu shrugged.
Petra said, “When do we get to detect?”
“When we know more.”
“But we’re not allowed to look for more.”
Stu gave a tight smile.
Petra said, “All this smoke because Ramsey’s VIP?”
“Welcome to Locustland. I love my job.”
Till recently he had. What was going on?
He entered the freeway heading north. A mile later, Petra said, “What about the book and that food wrapper? Potential witness?”
“If whoever was eating and/or reading just happened to be there when Lisa was killed. My religion tells me to believe in miracles, but . . .”
“And/or?”
“Could be two separate guys. Even if it’s one, the scene spells homeless guy, or woman. Lau said the body impression was small.”
“A bag lady,” said Petra.
“Whoever it was didn’t call 911, so if he/she was there, it shows a certain lack of civic responsibility. Don’t hold your breath waiting for someone to come forward.”
“So many bag ladies are schizophrenic,” said Petra. “Witnessing a murder would be terrifying to anyone, but someone already over the edge . . .”
Stu didn’t answer. Petra let him drive awhile before she said, “I was also thinking—I know it’s remote—what if whoever was behind the rock killed Lisa?”
He thought about that, then rattled off the same objections Petra had come up with.
“Plus,” he added, “I agree with your first impression: All that facial damage, the overkill, implies passion, someone she knew. If what Susie Shutterbug said about Ramsey beating up Lisa is true, he sure fits that bill.”
“But we can’t treat him like a suspect.”
“But we can psych him out while playing sympathetic public servant during the notification. Which is why I’m glad you’re here. He’s an actor—a bad one, but even bad ones are better at hiding their feelings than the average person.”
“What does that have to do with me?” said Petra.
“You’re good at reading people.”
Not at reading you, she thought.
Soon after they got on the 134 West, they got stuck in traffic.
Common enough situation, and whenever Petra found herself in a jam she fantasized about flying cars of the future—those VW-with-propeller gizmos predicted in Dad’s old Popular Mechanics.
Just sitting there drove her crazy and both of them knew it. Stu was a calm driver, sometimes maddeningly so.
“We could take the shoulder,” she said.
He’d heard it a hundred times before and smiled wearily.
“We could at least put on the lights and the howler,” she added.
“Sure,” he said, shifting the car into park and gunning the engine. “Let’s use our guns, too, shoot our way out . . . so what approach should we take with Ramsey?”
“Sympathetic, like you said. Be there with tissues for his crocodile tears.”
“Crocodile,” he said. “So you’ve decided hedunit.”
“If Mormons gambled, where would you put your money?”
He nodded, turned his head in order to suppress a yawn, and they crawled a quarter mile, then stopped again. Rubbing her eyelids, Petra created twin kaleidoscopes behind the thin flesh. A headache was coming on. She had to learn to deal better with frustration.
“All these years working Hollywood,” Stu said, “and I never had a celebrity murder. Closest I came was this old guy, Alphonse Dortmund. German émigré character actor, used to play nazis in World War II movies. Got strangled in his apartment on Gower. Real dump. He hadn’t worked in years, drank, let himself go. Uniforms responding to a bad odor call found him all tied up in his bed—hog-tied with the rope around his neck, complicated knots.”
“Sexual asphyxia?”
“That was my first impression, but I was wrong. He didn’t do it to himself. Turns out he picked up a fifteen-year-old on the Boulevard, showed the kid how to truss him, then the kid decided to take it further, choked him out, ransacked the apartment.”
“How’d you catch the kid?”
“What do you think?”
“He bragged.”
“To anyone he could find. My partner at the time—Chick Reilly—and I went to all the usual places, talked to all the usual people, and everyone knew what had happened. It made us feel like rubes just off the farm.” He laughed. “Thank God most of them are idiots.”
“Wonder how smart Ramsey is,” said Petra. “Any particular reason he wouldn’t be in his office?”
“You’re thinking he rabbited already? No, we can’t assume that. He’s not filming. All this year’s shows are already in the can.”
“His show specifically, or all of the shows?”
“All the main ones,” said Stu. “He could be playing tennis, soaking in the Jacuzzi. Or on a chartered jet to the south of France.”
“Wouldn’t that be inopportune.”
“Indeed. Hey, maybe we should shoot our way out of this.”
Forty-five minutes later, they got off the freeway at Calabasas Road and took a curving road north, into the Santa Susanna Mountains. Smooth, rolling slopes sported groves of live oaks that had survived progress. The trees were acutely sensitive to overwatering, and irrigation had killed hundreds of them before someone had caught on and designated them protected.
Fires had fun out here, too, Petra knew, racing through dry brush and chaparral, devouring the big vanilla retro-Spanish houses that seemed to be the thing in upscale, West Valley neighborhoods. No matter how much mo
ney went into them, they never looked anything but retro.
They passed several tracts of vanilla now, some behind gates. Twin-paddock horse setups, small corrals alongside tennis courts, and stone-and-waterfall swimming pools. The air was good, the lots were generous, and once you got away from the freeway, it was quiet. But Petra knew it wasn’t for her. Too far from bookstores, theaters, museums, L.A.’s meager cultural mix. Too calm, also. Cut off from the pulse.
Not to mention the commute—two hours of your life each day spent studying the white lines on the 134, wondering if this was success.
Calabasas was popular with what Petra, secretly a snob, thought of as the nonthinking rich: athletes, rock stars, overnight entrepreneurs, actors like Ramsey. People with long blocks of leisure and a melanoma-be-damned view of sunshine.
Petra suspected the free time caused problems. A recent Parker Center memo had warned of white Valley teenagers starting to emulate the inner-city gangbangers. What did kids do out here except get into trouble?
Back in her artist days, she’d sometimes fantasized about what her life would be if she ever made it big—twenty thousand a canvas, no need for commercial jobs. Half the year in L.A., half in London. It had never come to that, of course. She’d sketched and T-squared twelve hours a day just to pretend she was contributing financially to the marriage, telling Nick what he earned was his. How noble. How stupid.
“Here we are,” said Stu.
RanchHaven sat atop a knoll planted with golden poppies. High, scrolled gates on pink columns. Behind the wrought iron were the biggest haciendas they’d seen so far, scattered thinly on multiacre lots. An unmarked Dodge was parked on the side of the road, twenty yards before the gates. No-frills wheels and multiple antennae made it every bit as obtrusive as Stu and Petra’s Ford.
They pulled up behind it and two men got out. One was Hispanic, forty-five, five-ten, heavy-set, with a gigantic swooping black mustache and a tie full of birds and flowers. His partner was white, much younger, same height, thirty pounds lighter, also with lip hair, but his ’stache was clipped and yellow-gray. Both wore gray sport coats. Black and navy slacks, respectively. The white deputy’s tie was narrow and maroon, and he had a pleasant boyish face just short of handsome.
They introduced themselves as De la Torre and Banks. Greetings all around; nice and friendly so far.
“What exactly happened?” said De la Torre.
Stu filled them in.
“Ugly,” said Banks.
Petra said, “Your boss never told you?”
Banks shook his head. “We were told Ramsey’s wife had been killed, but not how. The order was to get here, wait for you. We were also told it wasn’t our case; we should just be here so later no one could say we weren’t. Where’d it go down?”
“Griffith Park.”
“Just took my kids to the zoo there last Sunday,” said Banks, shaking his head. He looked bothered, and Petra wondered how long he’d been in Homicide.
“Think he did it?” said De la Torre.
Stu said, “Our info is he beat her up last year and they got divorced soon after.”
“There’s a couple of high riskers for you.”
“One thing for sure,” said Stu. “It was no street-idiot mugging. Mega-wounds, mega-fury. Someone took cash out of the purse but left credit cards and her jewelry. We figure someone she knew or, less probably, a sex fiend. Whoever it was either drove off in her car or took her there in his.”
“What did she drive?” said Banks.
“Porsche 911 Targa, four years old, black. We put a want out for it.”
“To some people, that’s worth killing for.”
“Maybe,” said Stu, “but stabbing her two dozen times for wheels? Why bother?”
Silence for a few seconds.
“Cash, no jewels,” said De la Torre. “Attempted fake-out? Ever watch Ramsey’s show? I did. Once. Stinks.”
Petra said, “It would be good to know if he ever caused problems around here.”
“We can check with the locals for you,” said Banks, offering her a brief, puzzling smile.
“That would be great.”
“So exactly how do you want to proceed?” said De la Torre. “I mean, seeing as we’re just here for the chorus line, we don’t want to screw up your solo.”
“Appreciate it,” said Stu.
“So what’s the plan?”
Stu looked at Petra.
“Low profile,” she said. “No treating him like a suspect, no biasing the case prematurely.”
“Ramsey’s an actor, so everyone’s got to put on a performance—don’t you just love this town?” said Banks. “Okay, we’ll just hang behind, be discreet. Think you can do that, Hector?”
De la Torre shrugged and said, “Me no know,” in a cartoon Mexican voice.
“Hector’s an intellectual,” said Banks. “Earned a master’s degree last summer, so now he thinks he’s entitled to have opinions.”
“Master’s in what?” said Petra.
“Communications.”
“Thinks he’s going to do sports on TV one day,” said Banks. “Or the weather. Do the weather for them, Hector.”
De la Torre smiled good-naturedly and looked up at the sky. “High pressure hitting a low pressure coming down and encountering a medium pressure. Possibly leading to precipitation. Also, actors beating on their wives, possibly leading to murder.”
Both unmarkeds pulled up to the pink column. The gates had a green pseudo-patina. On the left column was a talk-box and a sign that said DELIVERIES. Twenty feet up the drive on the other side of the gate was a guardhouse.
Stu leaned out, pushed the button on the box and said, “Police for Mr. Cart Ramsey.”
The uniformed guard stuck his head out and came forward. Stu’s badge was out, and by the time the gates slid open, Petra could see from the guard’s body language that he was ready to cooperate.
“Help you?” he said. Older guy, round gut, deep tan, lots of wrinkles, hair dyed beige. Walkie-talkie and baton, but no gun.
“We need to talk to Mr. Ramsey,” said Stu. “Privately. I guess you understand how highly Mr. Ramsey and his neighbors value privacy.”
The guard’s eyes widened. “Oh, sure.”
“So we can count on you, Officer . . . Dilbeck, to be discreet?”
“Sure, sure—should I call ahead to tell him you’re coming? Usually, that’s what we do.”
“No thanks,” said Stu. “As a matter of fact, please don’t. Tell me, Officer, has Mr. Ramsey entered or exited RanchHaven today?”
“Not during my shift—that’s from eleven o’clock on.”
The normal thing would be to ask who’d been on night shift. Instead, Stu said, “Thanks. How do we get up there?”
“Keep going to the top and take the first left, which is Rambla Bonita. Go up again, straight to the top, and that’s his place. Big pink place, just like these columns.”
“Pink,” Petra repeated.
“Pink as it gets. When he bought it it was white, but he and the wife repainted.”
“Ramsey have any problem with that?”
“Not that he told me. But he don’t say much at all. Like that character he plays—Dack whatever his name is.”
“Strong and silent?” said Petra.
“You might say that.” Dilbeck stepped aside.
As they reached the top of the first rise, Petra said, “Well, that clinches it, doesn’t it? It’s always the quiet ones.”
CHAPTER
9
The park took me in like a friend. I learned.
Things like what times the rangers patrolled and how to avoid them. Which restaurants threw out the freshest food and how, if you worked in the dark, you didn’t get bothered while Dumpster-diving.
Who people were.
The guys on Western were drug dealers and all they wanted was to do their business without being annoyed, so I stayed on the other side of the street. After about a month, one of them cro
ssed over and said, “Smart boy,” and gave me five dollars.
I learned how to get stuff.
If you go far enough east on Los Feliz, the fancy houses stop and there are apartments. On Sunday, the people who live in the apartments sell stuff out on their front lawns, and if you wait till the end of the day, you can pick up things extra-cheap because they don’t want to bother packing it up.
I bought a green blanket that smelled of wet dog for one dollar and a sleeping bag for three, and I got the guy who was selling the sleeping bag to throw in a pocketknife with three blades, one of them a screwdriver, for free.
Sometimes the people selling looked at me strangely—like, What’s a kid doing buying underwear?—but they never turned down my money.
I bought a flashlight, two packets of AA batteries, some old T-shirts, a sweater, and a round couch pillow that was hard as rock and rotted, a total waste.
I spent thirty-four more Tampax dollars the first month. Adding the five I got from the dope dealer, that left fifty-four dollars. I found the Five Places and spread my stuff around them.
I learned when to smile, when not to, who to look at, who to ignore. Found out money is a language.
I made mistakes. Ate bad food and got sick, one time really bad, throwing up for three days straight, with fever and chills, and sure I was going to die. That time I was in a cave in Three, living with bugs and spiders and not caring. On the third day, I crept out before sunrise and washed my clothes in the brook. My legs were so weak it felt like someone was kicking me in back of my knees. I got better, but since then my stomach hurts a lot.
I learned about prosties and pimps and saw people doing sex in alleys, mostly women down on their knees sucking on guys who didn’t move, just groaned.
I realized that to get enough money so no one would use me, I’d have to be educated, but how was I going to do that living in the park?
The answer I came up with was: teach yourself—meaning schoolbooks, meaning a school. A junior high, because back in Watson, I was in seventh grade, even though a counselor visiting from Bakersfield once showed me some puzzles and told me I could skip to eighth if Mom signed some forms. She said she would, but she never did, and then she lost the forms and the counselor never asked, so I stayed in seventh, and unless I let my imagination race around I was so bored my mind felt like wood.
Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor) Page 6
